Margins of Error
by sailormade
Summary: Miraculously, Brain Armstrong survives his parachute malfunction during the HALO jump—but only by the skin of his teeth, and neither him nor Clay come out unscathed. After a concerning talk with Adam Seaver, Jason doubts his decision to draft Clay onto Bravo Team—but Ray is adamant that Clay Spencer is a chance worth taking. —but is he? / Rewrite of Season One.


**A/N:** MARGINS LIIIIVES. Ah. This is my passion project, right here.

(But never fear. An update for Light the Way is coming very soon; I know I've been saying that, but muse has been low & I'm workin' on military time.)

So. Margins. I not only wanted to explore/sculpt Clay's character and his burgeoning relationship with Bravo Team, but I wanted to play with less-written characters too—namely Brian, Adam, Trent, Brock, Eric, Mandy, Lisa, and Stella. I have an absolute ton of plans, plot twists, spin ups, and surprises planned for this, so! Without further ado, welcome to my canon-divergent retelling of season one. It'll be running all the way through the season one finale. Let me know what you guys think!

_This story is also posted on ArchiveOfOurOwn. In the AO3 version, I've added .gifs to accompany the chapters. _

* * *

WHAT I CARE ABOUT ARE THE GUYS ON MY TEAM, AND THEY CANNOT AFFORD TO BE DISTRACTED. MARGIN OF ERROR IS ZERO. — _Master Chief Jason Hayes._

**1\. SWEET SOUTHERN GOTHIC TRAGEDY**

Since his death, the weight of Nate Massey's absence had become a tangible thing, distended and heavy like a thunderstorm teetering on the edge of tornadic; It wound itself around Jason's lungs like a hangman's noose and lynched the breath from him. Losing Nate so abruptly felt like losing a limb, and like a sheepdog relearning how to herd after the amputation of one of its legs, Master Chief Jason Hayes had to relearn how to operate in the field without Nathan Massey at his side—his best friend, his diligent fourth in command, and the father of his godson, Landon.

Jason was trying to maneuver through that process still.

Ray told him that grief had a timeline of its own, and that he shouldn't try to rush through the adjustment period that Bravo Team was in. Jason told him that the Taliban wouldn't take a night off because some Tier One Operator took a bullet, and that Bravo had to keep moving forward.

After that, Ray dropped the subject. He hadn't brought it up since.

A month or so had come and gone since Nate's death—Or, hell, maybe it'd been two. Jason wasn't too sure anymore; Every moment without Nate Massey at his side seemed to blur into the next. Nate's wife, Molly, would know how long it'd been down to the minute. Jason couldn't find it in himself to care. Nate was buried six feet deep, and counting the minutes since he left wouldn't bring him back. And Jason had work to do, and children to parent, and a life to live.

A life to live. The thought made Jason want to laugh wryly. He was sitting at Ray and Naima's kitchen table, intruding on their first night alone since the birth of their son just so that he could avoid his soon to be _ex_-wife. He slept on their couch most nights, too. Some life that he was living. It certainly wasn't one that would make Nate proud.

"Hey, Jace?" Came Ray's voice from across the table. "You all there, brother?"

Jason pried his eyes away from the long string of text messages on his phone and glanced up at Ray, who was looking at him expectantly. Shit. Had Ray asked him a question?

"Yeah, yeah," Jason replied. "Sorry. Adam just texted me a damn novel. I was skimmin' through it. What'd you say?"

Ray chuckled. "I said, could you please pass me the parmesan? You know I can't eat spaghetti without a mountain of parmesan."

Jason grabbed the bottle of parmesan sitting next to his bowl of spaghetti and handed it to Ray.

Naimia rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "That is disgusting. Tell him, Jason. A _sprinkle_ is enough. You don't need a mountain of cheese. My spaghetti is perfect as is, thank you very much."

"Everything you make is perfect, Naima."

"Oh, that's cold, brother," Ray said. "Suckin' up to the Mrs. You tryin' to make me look bad?"

Jason laughed. It felt less hollow, and a little more real, than last week. "You do that all on your own, Ray."

An easy silence fell over the table. Jason took a bite of his spaghetti, and savored every second that it was in his mouth. He wasn't lying when he said that everything Naima cooks was perfect. It really was.

"So, what's Adam's novel about?" Naima asked. "He catch Victoria kissing that boyfriend of hers again?"

Jason sighed, appetite suddenly gone. He'd hoped that neither of them would ask.

"There was some kind of accident during the HALO jumps today," He said. "I guess one of the parachutes malfunctioned."

Ray's chewing slowed.

"Oh no," He said around a mouthful of pasta. "Who?"

"Armstrong," Jason replied. "Twenty six broken bones, at least. Lost his spleen and appendix. A broken rib punctured one of his lungs. It'll be a damn miracle if he makes it through the night."

Naima looked close to tears. It dawned on Jason then, in retrospect, that he probably should've watered down he gory details of Brian Armstrong's accident. Naima was less than three weeks postpartum—Something as simple as a sad commercial was often enough to send her into a fit of crying.

"My God," She said. "Green Team… How old would that make him? About twenty seven?"

"Twenty six."

"Jesus. What about Spenser?"

"What about him?"

"Didn't Adam say that him and Armstrong are attached at the hip?"

Thoughts of Nate leapt to the forefront of Jason's mind. If he closed his eyes, he figured that he might've been able to see Nate's face. Him and Nate had been that inseparable too, right up until Nate was put in the ground. Jason couldn't find it in himself to muster up any sympathy for Clay Spenser; Sooner or later, every SEAL had to learn how to lose a buddy. And if they didn't, or they couldn't, they shouldn't be a SEAL at all, let alone a Tier One Operator.

"Yeah, well," Jason said, leaning back in his chair. He folded his arms across his chest. "Sooner or later, Spenser's gotta' learn how to bury his buddies. Might as well start early. It'll be good for him."

Naima scoffed. Jason braced himself for the reprimand that he knew was coming.

_"Jason David Hayes," _She hissed. "What's gotten into you?"

Anger, mostly. More often than not, Jason awoke in the morning so filled with rage and holy fire that he nearly vibrated with it. Since Nate's death, there wasn't a single moment of Jason's day where he didn't want to put his fist through his reflection in the Perry's bathroom mirror.

"Just saying," Jason said with a shrug. "It was bound to happen, sooner or later. Better he learn how to deal with it now then when he's on a Tier One Squadron. If he gets drafted, that is."

"Jace," Ray started, incredulous. "Give the kid a break. Damn."

Jason could feel Naima's eyes on him, ardent and sharp. She was about to make him regret opening his mouth, and all three of them knew it.

"Burying family doesn't get any easier to deal with," Naima snapped. "It's gruesome and terrible and awful and it always, always hurts. I know that you're still hurting over Nate—"

Jason flinched at Nate's name. It felt like a sucker-punch.

"But that _does not_ give you an excuse you to take it out on Clay Spenser. Or his friend, for that matter. Why don't you reread that text for us? What was it that Adam said? Twenty six broken bones? Lost his spleen? How in the hell is that good for either of them?"

He felt like a child being scolded. If Jason's nerves weren't so frayed, and if Nate's death weren't so damn fresh, then he might've felt a little guilty about what he was saying—Or like a jackass, at the very least. Jason looked at Ray, pointedly avoiding Naima's heated gaze; The pity on his face made Jason grit his teeth. Why wasn't Ray as angry as he was? Why didn't Ray want to break his hand on the very next set of teeth that he saw? While they sat around and ate homemade pasta, Nate's corpse rot underground. While they kissed their wives goodnight, Molly cried herself to sleep in a cold, empty bed. While they tucked their babies in to sleep, Landon held his daddy's dog-tags tight between his little hands. Where was Ray's outrage? Where was anyone's, for that matter? Jason couldn't understand why he was the only one ready to deliver righteous, holy retribution on Nate Massey's behalf.

A warm, soft hand enveloped his own. Jason didn't have to look away from Ray to know that it was Naima.

"I know you're hurting," She said softly. "You and Ray both. But please, talk to each other. And talk to me. Don't take it out on Clay Spenser. Or Alana, for that matter. It isn't fair, and all three of us know that Nate wouldn't want that. Think about the example you're setting for Landon."

Jason deflated, the anger leaching out of him. He knew that Naima was right, as she usually was.

"You know, I'm not that hungry anymore," He said, pushing his half-eaten bowl of spaghetti forward. All this talk of Nate Massey and Clay Spenser and another half-dead Green Team SEAL had thoroughly killed Jason's appetite. "I think I'm gonna' go for a drive."

"No," Naima said matter-of-factly. "You're going to sit there, finish your spaghetti—which I worked very hard on, by the way—and Ray is going to tell you all about how RJ smiled for the first time last night. Isn't that right, Ray?"

Ray cleared his throat. "Ugh, yeah. It was pretty adorable. I got a real cute baby, man. Jameelah was the one who made him smile, too, which. . ."

Jason tuned about Ray's story and absentmindedly finished his bowl. He really wasn't hungry, nor was he interested in stories of domestic bliss—More than anything, he wanted two shots of whiskey neat and a night alone with Alana. But Alana only ever wanted to talk to him about divorce papers, and he'd told Adam that he'd meet him at the hospital in the morning, so that meant that he couldn't drink either.

Nate's absence threatened to suffocate him.

* * *

Clay believed in what could be proven; He believed in science and facts, in mathematical odds and that which he could see with his own two eyes. He didn't believe in miracles or God or any of that wishy-washy, self-soothing, hocus-pocus bullshit. Brian was the one who believed in miracles—Miracles, and fairytales, and all that Disney crap that neither of them had as children. Up until the moment at present, Clay couldn't fathom how or why Brian believed in what he did. . .

But it was 06:43 and Brian Armstrong was still breathing—That had to mean something, right? Brian hit the ground almost at speed; Every odd and fact and rationale said that Brian should be dead. Clay still didn't believe in miracles, but for Brian, who lay half-dead in a hospital bed, pieced together with steel rods and plaster casting, he could try. _He would try. _

"Spenser?"

The voice came from Clay's right and startled him from his thoughts.

He glanced to the side to see Adam Seaver. Anger swept through Clay's veins like a wildfire.

Logically, Clay knew that Brian's accident wasn't Master Chief Adam Seaver's fault. It wasn't Adam's responsibility to check the parachute packs that'd used, and it certainly wasn't his responsibility to play Cub Scout Den Mother to a squadron of Navy SEALs, all of whom had a minimum of_ six years_ operating under their belt.

But. Still. It was Adam Seaver's responsibility to oversee Green Team, to keep his SEALs as safe as he possibly could while he shuffled them through the DEVGRU selection process. And less than two hours ago, Brian was circling the drain.

He'd flatlined. Twice. The long, high pitched drone on Brian's electrocardiograph would haunt Clay's nightmares until the day a bullet took him out. He'd hear it in the dark, while he was prowling for an HVT with his platoon. He'd hear it in the quiet, after Stella crept out of his bed and left for work. Never before that moment had Clay Spenser felt like he was losing everything in the goddamn world. All that he could do was stand in the corner of Brian's room, useless, alone, while a team of nurses shocked life back into Brain's heart—Clay didn't think he'd ever be able to separate that horrifying, harrowing moment from Master Chief Adam Seaver's face.

"Yeah?" Clay asked.

"You've been in that chair for eight hours. Go get something to eat. And shower."

"I'm fine, Master Chief."

There was pause before Adam replied, "I wasn't asking."

"And I'm not leaving." Clay said frankly.

_"Clay."_

"Don't. Just—With all due respect, Master Chief, please don't. Do what you gotta' do, but I'm not goin' anywhere."

He heard Adam sigh, heavy and long. "You just can't make anything easy, can you, Spenser?"

"Guess I really am my father's son then, huh?"

Tense silence stretched out between them, thick enough to cut with a knife.

"I called Elijah," Adam said gruffly. "His flight lands at 09:00. When he gets here, I expect to see you in the hospital cafeteria eating something. I don't care what."

Clay remained silent. He kept his eyes fixed pointedly on Brian. He listened to Adam's footsteps until they faded into silence.

Clay tried not to think about Elijah, or the fact that he'd have to see Elijah face to face in a short matter of hours; He tried not to focus on the swath of gauze that covered half of Brian's battered face, or the cast that encased the entirety of Brian's left leg, all the way up to his thigh, or the brace on Brian's wrist. Clay tried not to think at all. He focused instead on the steady beeping from Brian's electrocardiograph._ Beep. Beep. Beep._

Those irritating little beeps told him that Brian's heart was beating steady and strong. He was breathing on his own, too. Those were not little things to be dismissed. They were miracles. Clay made the choice to believe that they were miracles. If he didn't, he had nothing else to believe in.

Clay glanced down at his phone. It was 06:57. Less than fifteen minutes had passed since he last checked. His stomach rumbled. His head throbbed, whether from exhaustion or his sinus infection, he couldn't tell. Time crawled on.

He had eight missed calls from Stella, and twice as many unread text messages, as well as four missed snapchat notifications and two voicemails. Clay knew that he should respond to them, or at the very least open them, but he was too tired, too angry, too frozen by grief.

There were also two missed text messages from Brian.

_Hurry up, dipshit. You smell fine. We're gonna be late.  
If I have to hike upstairs to drag your ass out of the bathroom I'm breaching the door._

Clay laughed so that he wouldn't cry. There were two snaps from him too, but Clay couldn't bring himself to open them. He couldn't bare to see Brian's face before all the injuries. Not yet.

07:03. Stella would be asleep still. It was Thursday. She wouldn't have to teach until eleven 11:00. Clay decided that he'd send her a quick "I'm alive," text around 10:00. At least then she'd be awake. He wouldn't tell her about what happened until Brian woke up and could tell her himself.

Somehow, Clay had dozed off. The sound of a knock at the door jerked him awake. He looked toward the source of the sound and saw a familiar figure standing in the doorway.

"Can I come in?" Ray Perry asked.

Ray Perry?

"Ugh, yeah, I guess, man," Clay said, confused. What about Jason Hayes' 2IC being doing in Brian's room?

He glanced down at his phone, only to find that it was dead. So much for texting Stella back.

Clay groaned. "D'you know what time is it?"

Ray dropped into the chair next to him and said, "A little after 08:00."

Clay blinked. Holy shit. He must've done a little more than dozed off, then. He must've slept a full hour. It would explain why he felt a little less dead on his feet. And why his neck felt so damn sore.

"How you holding up, Spenser?" Ray asked.

Oh. So that's what Ray Perry was doing, then. The realization hit Clay like a fist to the jaw.

"Jason put you up to this?"

Ray had the audacity to look caught off-guard. "Excuse me?"

"Jason. What, he send you to spy on me or something? I've heard the guy likes to hold grudges but, damn, really? He's still pissed over that shit with Abu Samir? It was a clean shot, man. I saved your asses. Tell him to get the hell over it."

"No, it isn't like at all. I wanted to see how Armstrong was doing. And you."

"Doing better than Brian," Clay said curtly. "Wait — How'd you even hear about this?"

"Jason was having dinner with me and wife when Adam texted him. I told him I'd tag along in the morning because, like I just said, I wanted to see how Armstrong was doing. Believe it or not, I do care about more than just Bravo Team."

Clay found that hard to believe. He didn't bother trying.

"He made it through the night, and he's breathing on his own. If he — The broken bones will heal, and so will everything else. He's gonna' make it."

"Well, from what I hear, he's one tough sonofabitch."

Clay chuckled wetly. "Understatement of the century, man. Bri … He's like a dog with a damn bone, you know? Won't give up on anything once he gets it in his head. He has to see everything through. Drives me up the damn wall, half the time. But the rest of the time ... He pulls me through, you know?"

Ray made a thoughtful sound. "Reminds me of someone else I know."

It didn't take a Master Chief to know that Ray was referring to Jason.

"So, really. How're you doing?"

Why would it matter? Clay furrowed his brows, still just as confused as when Ray first walked through the door.

"Like I said before, Ray, better than Brian."

"That's not an answer, Spenser."

Clay snorted. "Well, tell Jason that it's he's that concerned, he should come ask me himself."

"Jason didn't put me up to this, brother. I'm just here to offer condolences."

"Don't call me brother, and don't offer any damn condolences—Brian isn't dead," A short pause. "Listen, man, I ... I appreciate that you came, and that you seem to be the only person within a two hundred mile radius that doesn't immediately equate me to my old man, but can you leave, please? I've got about an hour and a half before the bane of my existence shows up and I'd just — I want to be alone with my best friend."

"Okay, Spenser, I'll go, just—"

Ray stood up, pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket, and handed it to Clay.

"If you need anything, give me a call, okay?"

Clay took the little piece of paper and nodded. "Yeah. Thanks, man."

And with that, Ray Perry left the room.

Clay reached out and wrapped his hand around the fingers sticking out of Brian's wrist cast. His skin was warm. Alive. It soothed some of Clay's frayed nerves. He went back to listening to the steady beeping of Brian's electrocardiograph. He focused on the steady rise and fall of Brian's chest.

"C'mon, buddy, you gotta' wake up," Clay whispered. "I'm pulling The Mardi Gras Card, okay? _Mardi Gras,_ you gotta' wake up. You can't leave me alone with Elijah. Or Ray Perry. If you're not here to function as my impulse control, I'm gonna' punch' em both in the throat. Squeeze my hand at the very least, man. Please. Don't make me beg."

Silence was Clay's only response.


End file.
